Accidental Spark
by cameo667
Summary: New chapter uploaded! Secret plans and a revealed admirer, new powers and a surprising wild child. What happens when Malfoy finds out that the goodygoody is a regular party girl? first fic, please review
1. Casey's Parties

Summary: A night of drinking, drugs and accidental magic lands Hermione in the Ministry of Magic! What will happen to her when Lucius Malfoy learns of her not-so-ordinary spell? Rated for obvious drug use and sexuality.

Rating: R

Disclaimer: HP doesn't belong to me (unfortunately).

**Chapter one**

"_Casey's Parties_"

Hi. My name's Hermione.

Yeah, it's a bloody strange name. People mispronounce it all the time. Even my ex-boyfriend couldn't say it right . . . though I suppose you could blame that on him being Bulgarian, and having been hit with enough Bludgers to kill a bear. Those things don't usually help boost your language skills.

Anyway, I have a confession to make.

Strictly off the record, mind you . . .

I'm a hug junkie.

That's it, send me to Betty Ford.

The thing is, most wizards, despite what you may have heard, are not in constant life-or-death situations. They are not world-famous Seekers, or saviors of the magical way of life. Most witches don't usually have to one-up the undersecretary to the Minister of Magic, fight off a herd of centaurs and battle the most powerful dark wizard of all time in one day. Many can even leave their houses without wondering about the mortal peril that their closest friends may be in!

But I am not most witches. I am the strange, strange Hermione Granger who feels so utterly shaken by her everyday life that I think if every person I know is not hugged every time I see them, I will regret it. It's a bothersome addiction, but then again, so would be heroin.

I told myself again that drugs don't counteract each other as Casey offered me a needle.

"Maybe next time. I don't feel like it," I told her. "Don't overdo it again, babe."

Casey gave me a sleepy sort of grin, her bottle-blond hair falling into her face. "Alrigh', man. Sude yerself!" She wagged a finger at my nose, "Bud I _will_ gedyo ta try it sumdime."

"Yeah, okay. Maybe next time."

"Dumn sdraihn." Her American accent was heavily covered in a drunken slur as blue eyes focused on the rubber strap she pulled around her arm. One end was tied while her teeth held the other in place. I was far too smashed to be able to concentrate on tying knots. How did she do that?

It seems as if the fiercest look of concentration I had ever seen came over Casey's face. She took the needle back from Benji. The black boy, who was slumped backwards onto the pillow, didn't really seem to mind. Casey turned her forearm upwards and smacked it with the back of her right hand. Then, with surprising dexterity, she twirled the needle around and plunged it into her arm.

I giggled and covered my mouth at the look Casey had on her face – like an orgasm. Her mouth was open with a weak grin and her eyes rolled back slowly, her body tensed when the needle withdrew. Laughing like a loon, I jumped off of the bed and ran for the bathroom, where I had last seen my boyfriend, Sam.

And I saw him again. Wow. He never did that with _me_. I didn't even know you could twist your tongue like that. It took me a minute to realize that I was still standing in the doorway (well, actually, leaning against the frame and trying not to fall over) and that the girl he was - ahem - involved with- was not me. Wait. That meant it was someone else. WHAT?

"WHAUH?" Close enough.

THAT BASTARD!

Sam turned around, still licking his lips. His eyes slowly widened as he saw me, once again upright, fuming in the doorway. Nicki zipped up her jeans behind him, looking satisfied.

THAT BITCH! WELL, THEY'RE JUST _BLOODY PERFECT_ FOR EACH OTHER!

The windows shattered. Nicki screamed and ran out of the bathroom . . . oh that– _that– _

"**_YOU MISERABLE EXCUSE FOR A FUCKING MUGGLE! HOW THE HELL COULD YOU DO THIS SHIT TO ME? YOU HAVE NO FUCKING RIGHT TO BE PISSING AROUND WITH THAT STUPID TOSSER WHEN I'M SITTING IN THE OTHER ROOM!"_**

The shower curtain ripped.

"_**AND WHAT IN MERLIN'S NAME WERE YOU THINKING? THAT I WOULDN'T THINK IF THAT - SLUT - CAME WALTZING OUT WITH A GRIN BIG ENOUGH TO - TO LIGHT UP A BLEEDING SKYLIGHT - THAT YOU WEREN'T MESSING AROUND WITH HER?"**_

The taps turned on full blast, flooding the bathroom floor in seconds****

"_**IF YOU EVER THINK, FOR JUST ONE BLOODY SECOND, THAT YOU ARE GOING TO GET AWAY WITH THIS, YOU ARE THE MOST STUPID DE-**DETES**- WORTHLESS FUCK UP THAT I HAVE EVER MET!"**_

With that, I furiously threw my hand out towards his chest. I didn't even think about it.****My hand just shot out at Sam, and the feeling of electricity coursing through me didn't stop at my hand's reach. A white light burst out of my fingertips and hit the wanker squarely in his chest. I only had the presence of mind to think, _oh shit!_ before I fell over and knocked my head on the edge of the bathtub.

I love Casey's parties.

_Red. Everything looks red. _

_Why? Hermione, why does everything look red?_

_Well, that's what light looks like when it's being filtered through your eyelids._

_Hmm. Interesting._

AAAHHHHH!

_God DAMN it's bright. _I tried to open my eyes again more slowly, noticing a shadow came over my vision.

"Mrs. Weasley?"

The kindly, curvy woman turned around and rushed over to the table, her brown eyes shining with relief at the sound of my cracking voice. "Oh, Hermione, dear, you're awake. Let me call your parents –,"

"No need, Molly," my Dad said from the doorway. Where am I? Everything looks so . . . sterile. But there are no wires. Anywhere.

What's going on, now?

Mum's smooth hand passed over my forehead, like she was checking my temperature. I looked up at her with my eyes (my neck was far too sore to move) and noticed something. She's got an awful lot of lines around her eyes. Did she look this tired yesterday? Was I awake yesterday? What was I doing yesterday? Why am I sore?

And where the bloody hell am I?

The questions raced through my head a million times faster than I could have answered them. I felt vaguely overwhelmed, the way I feel when I've just been hit by a big wave but know another one's coming. Well, I think I was drunk last night, if this raging hangover is any indication. The small, sober, non-achey and most 'Hermione' part of me decided to get everything else in order. First order of business: where am I?

"Mum?" speaking barely above a groan, my voice broke.

"Don't talk, ma choux. Just relax," Mum took on that infuriatingly motherly tone of hers. The one that makes me think of someone saying, don't you worry your pretty little head about anything. Comforting, complementary, and condescending at the same time.

"Mum," I said with more determination, "where am I?"

Mum sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind my neck. "I don't think I can explain exactly, Mya. You'll have to ask Molly, she knows what happened."

"Actually," Dad said, taking my hand, "she mentioned that one of Hermione's professors is coming to explain. Apparently this is fairly unusual."

"Did she mention who would be coming?" Mum asked.

"What's 'unusual?'" I cut in. Dad ignored me.

"The headmaster is coming, I think. Albus ... Dibbledoof?" he supplied awkwardly.

"Dumbledore. Why is Professor Dumbledore coming?" I asked, trying again. My mother gave me a deceptively stern look.

"Hermione, you shouldn't talk. You need to relax," she said, squeezing my hand. Her voice, however, was a little too harsh for comfort, maybe even frantic.

I thought over a couple of reasons for this. Maybe she was anxious for me to get better... but then why would she be so stern? Mum didn't want to listen to me, I finally realized. She didn't want to hear my questions and she didn't want to talk to me about what had happened.

This knowledge gave me a new determination, and I clasped onto her arm with a deathgrip and yanked her towards my bed. This did less than I expected, but Mum was still caught offguard and had to catch herself from falling onto me.

I fixed my mother with the most commanding glare I could muster. "Mum. _Please_. Where am I?"

It was slightly less commanding than I would have liked, given that my voice came out as a feeble squeak. Mum only gave me a look of pity as reply.

Dad rubbed my hand comfortingly. "It will all be fine. You're not in a bad way, we're told," he said with a tiny smile.

"We've got to leave, Mya, but I brought your new book," Mum said, and despite myself, my eyes brightened. "I promise we'll come back as soon as we can."

I decided to forgive her, since it truly seemed as if she knew as little about what was going on as I did. "Thanks, Mum."

Mum and Dad leaned in for a hug and left. I was alone in the room, left with nothing to occupy me but a thousand questions and a Numerology book. A throbbing headache raged at my temples, making everything that much more difficult to think about. I sighed.

"Well, here I am," I croaked to no one in particular.

The book called to me. With another heaving sigh, I opened it up to _Chapter One: Names in Numbers_ and began to read.

a/n: wasn't that fun? Yes, it's very short, I know, I just can't believe I'm actually getting a storyline set up here! Look, I promise to all of those Hr/D junkies out there that this will speed up a bit.

And as for the party-girl Hermione, I know it's supremely OOC but it's a cool idea anyway. Here's hoping that the bookworm bit at the end made up for that.

Let me know what you think! (And if you can understand a word Casey's saying) I promise you will be amply rewarded ... authors have verrrry active imaginations, after all!

Flames always welcome – it's February, and I need to keep warm!

Love and chocolates,

cameo667


	2. Massive Dose of Guilt

Disclaimer: If I had three wishes, one of them might be to own Harry Potter. But, alas, no. (Harry Potter, a million dollars and Ewan McGregor for the weekend).

OoOoO

**Chapter Two**

_Well, that's interesting,_ I thought to myself. _Apparently I'm a six ._

Hours later I sat in the same bland room on the same itchy bed, trying to forget my troubles by burying my face in a book. Honestly, vodka would be _so_ much quicker.

Or at least, that was how it seemed at the outset. The first chapter was so dull, all about the numbers associated with the consonants in one's name being one's true identity. If only the cure for my inner demons was as easy as finding _5+1_!

But as the book moved along, it seemed more and more interesting. Chapter six was all about how certain combinations of names can actually help to shape a child's personality. Which may explain why Parvati and Padma Patil, despite being identical twins, are so completely different. Then, in chapter twenty, it explained the magical history of the letters, how certain spells had to have specific names so that the numbers associated with them didn't counteract the purpose.

"_A six," _I read eagerly, "_ is most commonly a meticulous, responsible witch or wizard who enjoys asking questions much more than answering them. He or she usually posesses parental characteristics and may be protective of loved ones, but any threat will be met with the six's infamous anger and startling power._"

I paused, considering it carefully. Meticulous, yes; protective, yes; responsible ... usually. But powerful? It seemed as if all of my skill and cleverness when it came to magic was just that – cleverness. "I don't think that I'm very _powerful,_" I said aloud.

"I have to say that I disagree, Miss Granger. Even the brightest of witches can still fool themselves in times of need."

I jumped at the sound of a slightly amused old man in the doorway. He was dressed in a blue robe only slightly darker than his sparkling, hooded eyes, and his long white beard nearly touched the floor when he bowed his head by way of greeting.

I looked at him curiously for a moment. "Er – hello, Professor Dumbledore!" What was he doing here?

Oh, right. Explaining the 'circumstances.' How long ago was it that my father had said that? Merlin, what time was it?

"Professor, you wouldn't happen to know the time, would you?" I asked with a furrowed brow.

"Slightly after five o'clock," Dumbledore, smiling. "I see you've got a book on numerology? One of my favorite subjects, I must admit ... theory according to spell colour is particularly interesting..."

"Professor?"

"Oh, yes, of course." Dumbledore drew himself together a bit, managing to look both off-kinder and perfectly capable at the same time. A surprisingly wise senile grandfather figure, so to speak. "Miss Granger, as you may or may not be aware, you are currently residing in a Department of Accidental Magic laboratory. You were taken here last night after a slight incident in a home on the edge of Sussex, at the home of a young woman named Casey Firebrick. Does that name sound familiar?"

I nodded. "She's – a friend of mine. A muggle," I offered quickly.

Dumbledore nodded as well, looking me directly in the eye. "It seems that while you were at Miss Firebrick's home, a rather underhanded ... engagement was in process," he said delicately. "The ministry was notified when a strong amount of magic was detected at this location. However, because the particular spell – a simple stunning spell – had such an unusual signature, a small army of investigators was sent. Eyewitnesses, namely a certain Samuel Roberts, witnessed you aiming a bolt of white light from your palm. These officials found you in a damaged state, suffering from both a concussion and a magical influx. You are here, Miss Granger, because ... you imploded."

He looked quite amused about it.

I, on the other hand, had no idea what was so funny. Memories of the night were triggered by that damn boy's name. Yes, _boy_, because Sam certainly wasn't a sophisticated young man I saw fooling around with Nicki last night, that fucking wanker! How dare he?

"He had the nerve to wake up and _stick around for questioning?"_ I asked incredulously. Dumbledore looked at me with a more serious demeanor.

"With wands involved, Miss Granger, he hardly had the choice."

I grinned.

Dumbledore's eyes glittered, bright and shining from the reflection of the oddly fluorescent light around us. "What still remains to be recounted, however, is _your_ perception of what has happened," he prompted.

I sighed, thinking that at least he'd gotten to the point. The story flowed out of my mouth in a monotone, like a steadily dripping faucet. Facts and observations sputtered out in unexpected places, as well as the realization that someone must have stopped the bursted taps in the bathroom immediately after I passed out to prevent me from drowning. Every exploit sounded so much worse than the actual experience as I sat there, relating them all to my headmaster, the man who holds my academic career – hell, my life as I know it – in the palm of his hand. Awkward doesn't cover it. The silence that followed my little monologue was horribly long, I remember.

Dumbledore simply smiled at me. His eyes twinkled, infuriatingly. Damn that kindly old bastard! I put on my best 'I'm-confused-and-worried, please-answer-me' face and stared at him with big eyes.

He chuckled!

At me!

Is that a good thing?

Those blue eyes met mine steadily, and I was happy to see no trace of disappointment in them. No, that was definitely relief I saw.

Dumbledore opened his mouth slowly. "It would be difficult to convey the amount of anxiety of which you have relieved me," he said simply.

"Sir?"

"You see, Hermione, I had originally believed that you were attacked, possibly even possessed by Lord Voldemort," – I fought back a cringe that I had picked up oh-so-quickly as a Muggleborn – "And this new knowledge has quelled my fears. It seems that you simply exercised a unique form of spellcraft."

"That shot of light was a spell?" I asked eagerly, already thinking of what to name it. "What did I do?"

"Accidental magic, Hermione. It seems that you directed _emotion_ at Mr. Samuel Roberts, specifically regret," Dumbledore explained. "The poor young man was hit with such a powerful dose of guilt over what he had done that he insisted to stay and help after you had become unconscious. He is now in another ward, and does not remember the incident but wishes to meet you as soon as possible."

For clarification, I stated, "I forced an emotion on him." How about naming it the 'Sam-Roberts-Is-A-Lying-Tosser' Charm? I mused.

"Exactly."

"Isn't that illegal?" I asked, worried as another realization hit me. Being in trouble with the police was nothing. Azkaban prison was another matter altogether.

Seeming once again to read my mind, Dumbledore sighed. "You are not in trouble, Miss Granger," he said, and I let out a breath of air. "It is true that it is technically illegal to interfere with anyone's free will, but the emotional state remains a grey area, both legally and morally. The trouble is that this amount of force on a muggle cannot be traced because it was not performed with a wand. Your record will remain clean," he finished.

"I'm free?"

"You are free, Miss Granger. Now if you will excuse me, I have some business to attend to. Enjoy your reading," he bowed, "and good day." And with that, the headmaster swept from the room, taking my worries with him.

Within ten minutes I was immersed in my book again, totally without notice to the real world – and the squeak of footsteps that pattered slowly away from my door. It wasn't until much later that I recognized the feeling of those eyes on me as someone not entirely helpful. Someone who seemed quite curious about me, in fact.

And what Ron sometimes said was true. Lucius Malfoy was _always_ at the Ministry.

OoOoOoOoOoO

a/n: I'm not exactly sure as to whether or not this constitutes a cliffie. But whatever.

To my reviewers: would you like your prizes addressed individually now, or as a 'special treat' later in the story? I'm game either way. I love gift shopping. wink, wink! Carrot cake all around! It's my favorite.

Anyways, I know this was boring. I'm way too into theory and such, I just could not resist making the brainiac powerful, as well. Remember, kids: knowledge is power! And don't buy drugs – you can always mooch for free!

Kidding.

Sometimes you can't even mooch.

Kidding! Kidding, I swear, that's it...

Sigh.

Anyway, keep in mind that this is my first fanfic. Reviews are WELCOME in all forms. Even sonnets. Thanks in advance!

Love and chocolates,

Cameo


	3. Ginger Pops

Disclaimer: The HP isn't mine. Honestly, why do I have to keep reminding them . . .

OoOoO

**Chapter Three**

"You had been doing well, Draco," Father said. "This is not a reflection on your past behavior."

I tried not to expel a sigh of relief. There would be no punishment today.

It was still unclear, however, why my father had summoned me to his private study after one of his usual visits to the Ministry. Undoubtedly new information had come to light. Father often would launch into one of his newest discoveries, lecturing like an irritable professor about why I had to be nice to a certain classmate or show respect to a certain figure, appear some way in public in order to seem like the perfect child. He would also often tell me to do the opposite, the result usually being a certain air of aloofness around people whom Father no longer approved of.

Sometimes, Father would give me no explanation and make a brief show of force, but these incidents had become rarer since fourth year. It had been months since I was sent from the room limping or nursing my injuries. So now was about time for another little skirmish, and I was nervous.

Not that I showed it, of course.

What kind of a Malfoy do you take me as?

"It seems that you have finally proved yourself, from years of loyalty to everything that your name represents," Father continued.

"Thank you, Father," I responded. My eyes snapped away from the books on the walls and directly to his face.

"You may not have yet joined our ranks," he said, leaning back in his impressive leather chair, "but that is simply a matter of age. It is for this reason that I deem it appropriate for you to help us in a small task, which would usually be granted to a member of the Outer Circle."

My eyes widened. I had heard about his peers far too often not to know who 'us' was. "Thank, you, Father," I repeated, only this time I meant it.

OoOoO

Alright, I thought to myself. If I were a book-loving, attention-seeking, big-toothed, perfectionist Mudblood brat, what would I like?

I pondered this as I tapped the bricks next to the trash can behind the Leaky Cauldron. The wall opened up in front of me, and by the time the arch was formed I was halfway to Gringotts. I could simply charm some money to spy on her, and project the noises produced into one of my galleons . . . no, I remembered. She doesn't care about money.

I would try a diary to ensnare her, but she was too clever to write in one that wrote back, as the youngest Weasel had. It was amazing, really, how stupid that Ginevra was for a pureblood.

Trying to come up with something discreet yet powerful, I withdrew a few dozen Galleons from my private account and left the bank without a second glance, pulling the hood of my black robe up over my head to avoid those accusing glares that were being aimed at me.

No one seems to have looked at me or my father the same way since the end of last year, and the attack on the Ministry.

Of course I had read the papers, the accusations that my father had committed 'crimes against wizard-kind.' I had laughed at them for a while. It was completely ridiculous! Wizard-kind were purebloods, others who were interested in preserving _our_ way of life, who Father never would have harmed. Well, harmed without orders to do so . . . Or unless he felt like it.

But then the shopkeepers started refusing to serve us. So I began to go to stores with familiar owners, who were also purebloods. They said that my presence was bad for business. It was around the time that my father was sent to Azkaban that I began wearing a cloak in Diagon Alley, to hide the shock of platinum-blond hair that every wizard knew so well. If I kept my head down, most people couldn't recognize me. But the fact that I had to hide the identity that once made my name so well-respected was disgusting. The world that I had been raised in was crumbling at the very foundation: purebloods were royalty, and Malfoy was king. That no longer applied.

So it was with a hidden face that I thought of the best way to tap into Granger's power.

'_Granger seems to have found a way to impress emotion onto others. Find out all that you can without raising suspicion, and report your findings to me until a more formal arrangement can be made. Your role is only temporary, Draco, but I expect much as a result,'_ I remembered Father saying. Translation: Figure out how she did it or suffer the consequences.

I shivered despite the warm weather and made my way into Flourish and Blotts.

There were plenty of books on the shelves, which I knew Granger would devour like a hippogriff attacks a fish. I browsed a few titles, looking for something that screamed 'Muggleborn,' turning the corner into the section of spelled books.

"Welcome!"

I jumped, my eyes darting around for the person who had recognized me. No one. I looked back around the corner, where a large, bespectacled wizard was browsing a few titles on divination. Frowning, I stepped back into the Spelled Books section, where my eyes landed on a large display that said, 'Greeting cards.'

"Welcome," the thing squeaked again. I looked closer and saw a piece of paper flapping shut, a picture of a cottage printed onto the front. It was a bloody card! Why would anyone need a blimey card to say anything as stupid as . . .

_Why, to capture a mudblood, of course._

The card squeaked at me again. I could have cursed it into next week if it hadn't given me an idea. I grinned, though my face was hidden in shadow, and plucked one of the 'Get Well' cards off of the shelf. My plan was already halfway formed by the time I approached the counter.

"Six Knuts," the witch at the cash register said in a bored tone. From the looks of her, she was a seventh year who had only gotten a summer job.

I slid a galleon onto the counter. "Keep the change," I said. "I was never in here." She smiled back at me.

"Thank you, sir," she said, nodding slightly, and moved to help someone else.

With the card safely tucked into a pocket of my robe, I stepped out into the sunlight of the street and pondered my exact wording. Within moments I had retreated back into the Leaky Cauldron and thrown a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace and whispered, "Malfoy Manor," so as to not be overheard.

Someone did overhear me, though. I saw Potter's fat head whip around just in time to see me step into the fireplace.

OoOoO

"Master Draco is too kind," Ginger said in a voice that sounded like a balloon deflating. "Thank you, Master, for Ginger's biscuit," she added.

I snorted. "I didn't want to finish it, elf, it tasted like stale tripe," I said. With a kick she squealed again. "Now get out before I change my mind."

"Y-yes, Master Draco." **POP!**

I sat in the floor of my room, parchment and quills spread out in all directions over the oriental rug and bart of my bed, which was now acting as a backrest. A stack of books sat over by my desk, bearing titles like _Enchantments Made Easy_ and _The Intermediate's Guide to Persuasion Spells._

Ginger, my personal house-elf, had been helpful enough to perform most of the spells that I could not, what with the restriction on underage sorcery. Otherwise, I would have gladly done the spells myself. To be fully responsible for the Mudblood's unknowing corruption, without assistance, would be priceless.

But, alas, the sacrifices we make. I sighed again and looked at my work.

The card was simple, with a picture of bandages flowing into the shape of a phoenix, a wand clamped in its beak. Though it could never be mimicked perfectly, the noise the card made when closed sounded remarkably like a phoenix cry. Unfortunately, it held none of the same effect. Any imitation or recording of the cry sort of worked as a placebo for the actual noise.

I opened the card. It squeaked out, "Get well soon!" as more pictures of bandages arranged into a neat version of my cursive that said, 'Wishing you the best for a speedy recovery, signed A Secret Admirer.'

Aside from the directly visual, there were also several other charms and spells on the card. A very subtle dark spell ensured curiosity in the reader, so that Granger would be compelled to find her admirer. Series of cloaking spells covered my identity so that it was as if I had never touched the card. Finally, a fake magical signature of David Gleans, covered in a few weaker cloaking spells with purely light signatures both made it appear that this Gleans was the sender and that no evil intent had come into play when the card was sent.

It was such a fine piece of spell work that I was almost tempted to keep it.

"Ginger, come now," I shouted out to nowhere in particular.

With another resounding **POP **the small, bony thing appeared almost instantly. "Fetch the finest owl we have," I directed. "Not black, pick another color. Send this card," I held up the envelope, "to a girl by the name of Hermione Granger, care of the Ministry of Magic, Department of Accidental Magic, room number six. Do not mark the family name, she needs to think that this card came from David Gleans. If she replies, make sure that anything addressed to that name comes to me." I handed over the card. "And send over some . . . roses, or lilies, or whatever the hell these women like, as well."

Ginger just looked at me. "Master?" she squeaked hesitantly.

I stared her down before responding. "What is it, elf? You have your orders."

Ginger gulped and directed her huge, round eyes at the floor. "With the knowledge of this assignment, Master, may Ginger suggest something?" she asked quietly.

"What is it, elf?"

"Would it not be better if young Master Draco did not _overwhelm_ the Granger with flowers? Master always is saying Mudbloods is easily overwhelmed," Ginger suggested.

I thought about it for a moment, and nodded. "Thank you, Ginger, you are not totally worthless."

She bowed deeply. "Thank you, Master. Master is too kind."

"You have your orders," I repeated with slightly more menace. Ginger took the hint and disappeared, leaving me to the feeling of anticipation in my throat.

I grinned to myself. _This will be great!_

OoOoO

a/n: Thank you to my reviewers, you guys are fabulous. I'm trying not to rush the inevitable, if you haven't noticed so far. Because these things always seem to take _forever_ in real life. Yes, I know that a fanfic can be the most unrealistic thing I want it to be, but still!

dracodolenz: ahh, my first reviewer! I hope you're enjoying it so far.

Fiona McKinnon: Alright, girl, I'll try my best.

kriCket xO: that's totally the way it is, I'm glad someone understood my reasoning! At least, that's the way I was . . . but my parents don't keep such close tabs! (wink, nudge)

devilzangel69: ohh, sounds fiesty! I will as soon as I get it done and pops gets off the computer.

As for mooching, never ask the hyper kid. He's bad news, whatever he has got is laced. Always go for the mellow kid. Hermione will be a lot like this, later on: totally hyper when sober and healthy, but really chill when messed up.

Possibly.

But how will she be at Hogwarts? You won't know till I tell you! Hehehe.

Damn I'm hungover.

Okay! Thanks again, please review. Remember, I'm a newbie, don't be shy!

And always drink your Ovaltine!

Luv, Cameo


	4. Sausage and Eggs

a/n: decided to do this quick at the start of the chap. The beloved kriCket (thanks for the review! Always push that curfew to the max ... and lucky you about your brother, wish mine was like that!) has brought up an interesting question: what is Malfoy's mission?

Unfortunately, it is not to get close to Granger – er, Hermione. No, that would be too simple and painless a fanfic. And I intend to make this as painful as possible. (Chuckle chuckle.)

Now, what _is_ the mission, you might ask? Well, I won't tell you. You'll just have to read to find out. Again I chuckle malevolently! Oh, always with the chuckling.

Ahem. Now, since I seem to have passed my bout of amused fits, enjoy the chapter! (And never forget to review!)

Disclaimer: Are you kidding me?

OoOoO

**Chapter Four**

I woke up to the most horrible noise I had ever heard outside of the Forbidden Forest.

What was that? I looked around for the offender –

Mrs. Weasley sat snoring in the chair next to my bedside table. God, that woman! I swear she must be shaking the bloody dungeons with that howl of hers!

It was about six o'clock in the morning, judging by the pale light streaming in through my only window. Despite my objections, Mrs. Weasley had stayed in my room overnight. My parents couldn't have stayed, even if they needed to. Due to old security measures, when the Ministry building detects a Muggle inside its walls, the security wards go off and knock the Muggle unconscious until morning. And, even with as much as they knew about the wizarding world, my parents were still just that:

Muggles.

It's not a secret or anything, only a difficult fact to admit. Yes, it is fabulous to know about electronics and the internet and ball-point pens. Yes, it is nice not to have grown up with such pure bigotry about bloodlines ingrained into me. Yes, it is _lovely_ that I can actually function on holidays without the use of a wand.

But the feeling of being a second-class citizen is complete bullocks.

Most muggles or muggle-borns have trouble with figuring the exact connotations of "mudblood." It isn't, afterall, as if we had heard it since birth like any other curse word. Imagine it like this:

"Mudblood," in laymen's terms, means, "Filthy thing that crawled out of a sewer who deserves nothing in life simply because her parents didn't have an ounce of magic in them, and for that she must be considered unfit to lick a pureblood's shoe or even touch the ground that his three-legged dog walked on because that bitch is worth more than she'll ever be, no matter how smart or good of a person she is."

That's it, in a nutshell.

I yawned and tilted my head to look at Mrs. Weasley more carefully. Never, in a hundred years, would I have considered her to be fierce enough to raise seven great kids and be the head provider for the Order of the Phoenix from the peaceful look that appeared on her face.

Until she let out another snore, that is. One silencing charm! I begged silently. That's all I ask!

She had become like a surrogate mother to me, though. Mum, my real mum, is a wonderful teacher. She gave me the thirst for knowledge that most people know me for, and she gets me everything that I need. It was under Mrs. Weasley's watchful eye , however, that I felt . . . well, cared for.

I decided then to apologize to Mrs. Weasley, along with my parents, for this whole incident and for the incessant partying.

I grinned and laid back into my pillow. Just because I would apologize, though, didn't mean that I would stop.

Mrs. Weasly seemed to snort and coughed a few times, apparently stirred. I retreated back under the covers so as to not expose my backside in the huge gap of the hospital robe. Mrs. Weasley looked around for a moment and then fixed me with a pitying expression.

"Hermione, dear, I do hope that you get yourhead cleared out," she said matter-of-factly. "I woke up around four and you were snoring nearly fit to burst!"

With that, she lapsed into a small laugh and shook her head. I stifled a snort.

"I'll do that. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Weasley," I said.

"Oh, it's not a problem, Hermione," she said, holding up a hand. "I'm only worried about you not getting enough sleep, so I simply stayed quiet."

I bit back a smile and changed the subject. "So is this my last day here?" I asked.

"I don't know for certain, but I suspect that it is," she answered. "I'll go fetch an attendant for some sausage and eggs. You sit here and read your Daily Prophet. Oh, another owl! Lovely, you can read your mail!" The woman then stood and bustled out of the room.

I turned around and sure enough, there was a very handsome brown and grey owl sitting by the half-opened window. _Ooh, maybe it's my Hogwarts letter,_ I thought eagerly, already looking forwards to reading this year's textbooks.

"Come here, little fellow," I reached out towards the owl, who eyed me haughtily.

"Hoot," it said, leaning forwards and dropping the letter into my hand. Surprisingly, though, the owl didn't fly away immediately. I thought that it was going to bite me before I realized that the letter must need an answer. I sat for a moment. Whose owl was this? Merlin, why wizards never invented something like caller- ID. Owl-ID? I mused.

"Hoot!" the owl said impatiently. I glared at it and tore open the letter.

A simple card fell out into my lap. The picture on the front was delicate, a phoenix with wings beating in time to a very slow, calming melody. I couldn't for the life of me place it, though. I opened up the card.

"Get well soon!" it squealed. I dropped the card in surprise. Laughing at my own nerves, I picked it up again.

"Get well soon!" the card repeated. I thanked the universe for making sure that this didn't get to me when I had my splitting-headache-hangover the day before. Looking more closely, the thin lines that had formed the shape of a phoenix were small bandages that slithered onto the inside, forming a very nice script.

_Wishing you the very best for a speedy recovery!_

– _A Secret Admirer_

I yelped and dropped the card again.

A secret admirer? Me?

What?

Wondering what exactly the sender was smoking and how I could get a hold of some, I picked up the card and ignored its loud squeak. Damn eccentric wizards. Or witches?

No, the sender was definitely male. The script inside the card was definitely handwriting, and it was way too choppy to be a girl's.

A curiosity began to grip me. Who _was_ this bloke?

Probably just my Dad, I decided, and laid the card onto my bedside table. Sighing, I picked up my Numerology book, intent on memorizing the chapter entitled _Personal Numbers: Your Name and Character_.

Okay. I was going to quiz myself. Someone whose birth digits add up to one is the leader, the initiator. A two is all about facts, but out of touch with other people. A three is . . . damn. I forgot. I opened up the book again, humming to myself.

"Hmmm, mmmm, huh-huh-hmmmaaaaaaah . . ." A three is filled with a 'child-like innocence and curiosity.' "La, la-haummmm . . ." That's a pretty tune, I observed offhand. I wonder what it is?

I stopped and listened for a moment, realizing that the noise was indeed coming from another place in the room. My gaze stopped on the card. The same faint melody that I had been humming along with seemed to play softly from the phoenix itself.

Strange, I thought. Abandoning my book, I picked up the card again. Who sent this? I asked silently.

Suddenly, another noise perked my ears. At first it seemed as if the charm on the card was wearing off, but then the high, steady wail became louder. Was – is that screaming?

Another noise commanded my attention, then the same wail in reply.

A nurse burst through the door of my room with such force that the small window shattered.

"**AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH! GET AWAY FROM ME! LISTEN! I'VE GOT YOUR BLOODY EGGS! _LEAVE ME ALONE!_"** the young woman yelled. Her brown eyes were wild, and her dirty blond hair looked as if it were making a prison break from her hairnet.

Mrs. Weasley stepped into the room behind her, in much the same condition, but with considerably more composure. "ONE thing I ask is that this girl gets a decent breakfast. You expect porridge to help her get any stronger? Certainly not!"

I didn't want to point out that porridge is what I ate every morning, anyway.

"I ONLY DO WHAT HER CONDITION REQUIRES!" the nurse yelled back as I tried to stifle my laughter.

"Eggs are required for this condition!" Mrs. Weasley proclaimed indignantly.

"PAH!" I laughed. Mrs. Weasley paid no mind.

"Essential proteins, even I know that!" Mrs. Weasley continued.

"She can get those from _potions_," the nurse replied tiredly. Oh, dear, she looked on the brink of tears over some eggs. I laughed again, trying not to cry as well.

"Nothing provides the same –,"

"**FINE! **_FINE!_" the nurse yelled, tucking in strands of her flyaway hair. "You can fix your own bloody eggs! I'm transferring this patient!" I laughed again, one thought suddenly in my mind:

Department Transfer Form

Name: Hermione Jane Granger

Room Number: Six

Reason for Transfer: Eggs

I chuckled and laid back into my pillows again.

Mrs. Weasley sighed. "Well, she wasn't much help!"

I snorted.

The red-haired woman straightened her blouse and wiped her forehead, apparently having put some physical effort forth in the ten minutes she had been gone. She then cocked an eyebrow at me, the corners of her mouth twitching.

"The things I do for you children," she tisked. "You'd think that nurse had no common sense."

I smiled at her and took the hand she offered me. Of course, I didn't get away with just that. Oh no. Mrs. Weasley pulled me into a paralyzing hug for a full two minutes before pulling back.

"Thank you," I said simply.

Mrs. Weasley gave me a look. "Well, I couldn't just leave you alone overnight! Imagine what could have happened then! I just don't know what to do with you, Hermione." She shook her head.

"What do you mean?" I asked curiously.

"Don't you dare think that I don't know what went on at that Muggle's house," she said sternly. "What ever made you go to an escapade like that?"

"I–,"

"Liquor? And _drugs,_ Hermione? AND on top of that, you used an unapproved spell _underage_ on a _Muggle_! When I heard from Albus that you had been taken into the _Ministry_ because of possible _Dark Arts_–!"

"But, Mrs. Weasley, I–,"

"_**DON'T** you DARE interrupt me!_ I was worried sick, Hermione! This was a _completely selfish_, _inconsiderate_ thing to do! _If I find out that you have injured yourself doing something so careless **ever** again, I will drag you from the Ministry, **straight home**, and make sure that you are grounded until your hundred and twenty-first birthday!_"

"But, Mrs. Weasley–,"

"What is it, dear?"

I did a double take and gaped at her. She looked as composed as if she was on her way to a job interview. But that fury was still in her eyes.

"Wha –? Er, um . . . I'm sorry? I'm very sorry for what I did Mrs. Weasley . . ."

Her brown eyes narrowed.

"AND – erm, I don't know _exactly_ what happened, but, I'm so sorry that anyone else had to get involved in this. I know that it was inconsiderate, but I was just as scared as anybody, I swear to you," I said, trying to remember. A few scenes, memories of that night, flashed through my mind, leaving me shaky and feeling pitiful.

"I can't apologize for being with my friends and being a witch, but I never would have gone that night if I had known what would happened," I added honestly.

I put my face in my hands. "I still _am_ scared," I said softly. "I shot light from my fingers! I'm a . . . I'm a freak." I looked back up at Mrs. Weasley.

Her eyes were distinctly shining with tears. "Hermione, dear . . ." she sat on the edge of my bed and lifted the card and book from my lap tenderly, placing them on my bedside table. She sniffed, turned back to me, and pulled me into another hug.

"It happens to the best of us, dear," she said softly.

I snorted again. Yes, of _course_ every sixteen-year-old witch shoots guilt from her fingertips at random intervals, I thought bitterly. But I clung to her tighter. The laugh turned into tremors, too strong to be kept inside but to weak to be sobs. I would never just lose control enough to cry; I'm not exactly a crying, sniveling sort of girl.

"If you ever need help with anything, Hermione," Mrs. Weasley said at last, "never hesitate to ask." She sniffed and leaned back, the space under her arm giving me a clear view of the bedside table and the fascinating card that lay on it. My eyes opened slightly wider.

"Actually, Mrs. Weasley," I said slowly, "I do need your help on one thing . . ."

OoOoO

a/n: yes, I'm doing two notes. I'm the author. So what?

I was just noting that the longest chapter so far (ie. THIS ONE) has the absolute LEAST to do with the overall story. Probably. But you never know what could happen . . . heh heh. I do, though.

Anyways, thanks to my reviewers, both loyal and . . . well, loyal's the only bit I've got at this point. So that means that ALL my reviewers are loyal, and therefore, deserve thanks. In cake form. Hope you like chocolate! And NEVER forget to review or I'll set Mrs. Weasley on you faster than you can say butterbeer.

Love and buttercream-iced chocolate cake for everyone,

Cameo


	5. Granger?

Disclaimer: Oh for the love of – I OWN NOTHING! I OWN _diddly-squat!_ If I have to say it one more time . . .

Says the drama queen. Anyway, let's get on with it!

OoOoO

**Chapter Five**

"Well, this is interesting," Mrs. Weasley said finally.

"What is it?" I asked, leaning forwards on the bed, no longer concerned about my exposed backside. "What happened?"

Mrs. Weasley had done several revealing charms to find that the card's sender was a boy named David Gleans, who apparently wasn't too concerned about being found out. The only thing covering his tracks was a simple Confidentiality Charm, with a bit of reinforcement from a weak Confundus spell. I suspected that this was because he had thought that I wouldn't have access to any revealing charms over the holidays.

Mrs. Weasley continued to study the shimmer that had appeared on the card. "Have you heard of a Corality Revelation?" she asked me.

I scanned my memory quickly. "It shows the moral intent behind most spells or charms from a known source," I said in a monotone, quoting my fourth year charms book. "Why?"

Lips pursed, Mrs. Weasley pulled out her wand once more and tapped the card. "_Corilio,_" she murmured softly. The card's shimmer became brighter, mostly silver with a hint of gold here and there.

"Wait," I said, remembering the Revelation's effects, "Doesn't silver mean 'evil intent'?"

Mrs. Weasley nodded. "I'm afraid so, dear. You're in more trouble, that's certain. Do you see the gold? Here?" she pointed at the center of the card. I nodded. "That is residue from a deception charm, made to cover true intent with purely good vibrations," she explained.

"So whoever sent it is actually trying to do something that they shouldn't," I guessed. "And they tried to cover themselves."

"Well, then, we just have to find who that is, don't we?" Mrs. Weasley rolled up her sleeves and began poking the card with her wand, muttering incantations so quickly that I couldn't pick out where one ended and the next began. Slowly, the gold shimmer began to disappear except for a few specks here and there, revealing layers and layers of silver. It occured to me after about the fifth layer of silver had been vanished that Mrs. Weasley was an unusually talented, intelligent witch. Only she had been so occupied with her family and domestic chores that I never noticed, in the five years that I had known her.

"_Incataro Ideni_," she finished, casting another charm to reveal the sender's name. Satisfied, she put her wand back in her pocket and sat up straighter to watch. Tendrils of smoke curled up off of the paper, not burning it, but seeming to form words.

"We need to get the headmaster," Mrs. Weasley said, her eyes wide. I nodded dumbly as she scurried from the room, presumably to find a fireplace.

I just stared at the letters hovering in the air, hoping that they would change. But they didn't.

There it was. Clear as day. _Draco Malfoy_.

OoOoO

"Hey, you. Hermione, right?" the black boy asked.

I nodded. "And you're Benji," I stated. He smiled.

"Oi! 'Ay, I 'eard about you!" said a girl with red hair and a thick Northern accent (stronger because of her apparent drunkenness). "You 'ad to go to the 'ospital, righ'? Alcohol poisoning!" She crossed her eyes trying to concentrate on the last bit. "You're absolutely nutters! My name's Mary!" She dove into me for a hug.

"Hello, er– Mary, thank you," I said, confused but hugging her back. "Mary?" I shook her. "Mary, you can – Mary, _geroff_," the girl made no response, but slid down to the carpeted floor.

"Oh," I said. Bending over to poke her, I concluded that she was completely out. Gods, wait until eleven o'clock! I admonished silently. I pulled at her shoulder so that the girl wouldn't wake up face down in a pool of her own vomit and snatched the bottle out of her hand.

Hm. Smirnoff. I sniffed the top and looked around me. Nobody was in the room except for a bloke nursing a beer while watching a home video, and of course Mary, who was on the floor. Everyone else was in a room down the hallway, playing Pong or dancing.

"Oi, you –," I yelled at the boy watching TV. He shook his head and looked at me. "Watch her, will you?" He grunted and looked back at the TV, which I took as a 'yes.'

"Okay," I muttered to myself, studying the bottle. I took an experimental sip. Yep, tastes fine. I took two gulps, coughed, pulled myself together, and made my way down the hallway.

"_Seventeen tracks and and I've had it with this ga-a-a-ame!_" Someone was singing along, quite loudly, with the music. They were so off-tune, though, that it was hard to concentrate on the words. A roar of laughter came next, along with a chant of, "CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!"

Two small girls with dark hair walked past me, one dragging the other over to a nearby foldout table.

"What's this game called?" one asked, slurring slightly.

"I don't know, but it looks fun! Come on!" she pulled the other girl harder, causing them both to lose balance and fall over into a couple making out by the couch. Rather than apologizing, the dark-haired girls simply laughed, gave the boy a kiss on the cheek, and stumbled towards where the crowd was playing Pong. Finally, a decent party, I thought.

Pong is actually a nice game. Two teams, on either end of a ping-pong table or foldout table, throw ping-pong balls at plastic cups full of alcohol, usually beer. If the ball makes it in, then the opposite team has to drink the whole cupful. The loser is the one whose cups are gone first, or whoever gets too smashed to finish the game. Like I said, a lovely game.

I ambled up to the foldout table just as some boy named Stephen, who had light brown hair and looked about nineteen, was aiming his last shot.

"Go Steve!" Benji yelled from another place in the crowd.

"Come on, Steve!" someone else called out.

Stephen gave the crowd a lopsided grin and focused once again on the ball, waving back and forth like a reed on a breezy day. Biting his bottom lip, he tossed the ball, which landed with a satisfying _plink!_ into the remaining cup.

"OI!" he yelled, fists raised triumphantly in the air. His opponent drank the final cup and stumbled away from the table, apparantly just as happy that he had lost.

"WHO'S NEXT?" Stephen challenged loudly.

"HERMIONE!" Benji yelled in reply.

"Wha?"

But it was too late. The now familiar bottle of Smirnoff was rescued from my grip as the crowd shunted me down to the opposite end of the table.

"Watch out for that one, mate, she's wild!" someone yelled from the back. I smiled at the general direction the noise was coming from.

"Are you ready?" Stephen asked once the cups had all been replaced and filled. Oh what the hell.

"Whenever you are," I said with a smirk.

"Ladies first!"

It was an evenly matched game. We were tied all throughout, me making a shot and them him doing the same every time. The voices around us got louder, encouraging me and needling Steve for being even with a girl.

"Hey, I told you she was a fiesty one, didn't I, mates?" Benji yelled, to the delight of the crowd. I gulped the rest of the beer and smiled at him. The room was bending in my vision, looking like a seascape and high definition television at the same time. Both Steve and I had only one cup left. One left out of twelve.

First I had to chase after the ball, which was actually pretty difficult, considering how the floor bent sideways with every step I took. Then I had to hold onto the ball and aim. It seemed like the thing was literally dodging my hand! I finally caught it and chucked the ball over in the area of Steve's cup.

I could have died of surprise when I heard the ball go in.

"WOOO-HOOO!" I yelled, grinning like an idiot. Steve seemed to be attempting his last shot.

"WAY TO GO, GRANGER!" somebody yelled.

Steve coughed, his ball missing my remaining cup by inches.

"GRANGER! HERMIONE **GRANGER**!"

"Yep! And I just won! La-la-la–,"I started to do my victory dance. Then I realized that no one here was supposed to know my surname.

The world snapped into focus for a half-second. I got tunnel vision and the crowd parted to let one person through. The person who, apparently, had recognized me.

"Hey, Hermione," he said, coming closer, apparently trying to help me stay standing. I studied his features, too drunk to recognize anyone at the moment. Sandy blond hair, blue eyes, medium build . . .

"Seamus?" I asked in wonder.

He smiled at me. "Yeah, it's me. Are you alright? You were amazing!"

"Bloody brilliant, Hermione! You beat him into the ground!" one of the girls with dark hair said, slamming her fist down on the table and giggling. This started a whole chorus of cheers, and I felt myself being lifted up into the air and pushed into another room.

It was the music room, I recognized, a techno song playing loudly on a set of rather impressive speakers in the corner. I started dancing, not caring about anything else. Why was I angry? I couldn't remember! This seemed incredibly hilarious, and I started dancing faster.

**THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-**

I could practically feel the bass reverberating through my abdomen. My fingers and toes were numb, but I kept dancing.

**-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-**

I spotted that kid again. What was his name? Oh, yeah! "**SEAMUS!**"

"I'm right here, Hermione! Calm down!" But he laughed all the same and started dancing again.

**-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-**

"Seamus Fin-Finin– Finininigan!" I proclaimed.

"Finnigan!" he yelled back.

"Whatever!"

Seamus laughed and put his hands on my shoulders, trying to steady me.

**-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-**

"Come on, Seamus, dance!" I ordered him, jumping up and down. I shook my head side to side.

"Hermione!"

**-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-**

"Hermione, are you alright?"

I stopped shaking my head and tried to glare at him. He put his hands on my shoulders again. I put my hands on his.

**-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-**

He's so nice. I should thank him, I thought, smiling. So I did.

In the form of a snogging session.

**-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-**

He always was a nice bloke! I thought, kissing Seamus fiercely. I kept my eyes open for long enough to see his widen in heart-stopping shock before pulling back.

And I started dancing again.

**-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-**

The lights were off, my head was spinning, I shook it from side to side in time with the music.

The kid – Seamus, right? – was standing there, _staring_ at me, his finger touching his bottom lip, eyes still wide in surprise. He slowly grinned at me.

**-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-**

"I can't wait to tell the guys in Gryffindor," he said, watching me dance and starting to move in time himself.

"What?" I asked, not really caring. Seamus didn't answer, and was dancing fully next to me.

**-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-**

I shook my head, moving frantically. School starts in two days. And I kept dancing. Drunk out of my mind, sipping from a bottle that had materialized in my hand, sloshing alcohol all over the floor, unable to tell one of my closest schoolmates from a complete stranger playing Pong.

And I kept dancing.

School starts in two days . . .

OoOoO

a/n: Party-girl Hermione rides again! Yeah!

I hope those of you who asked for her are happy. You actually did inspire me. The confines of a drunken mind are actually really fascinating, and I was more than happy to explore them. Of course, I only had my own experiences as guidelines . . . hehehe!

Ah, so funny.

Anyway, thanks to my reviewers: Malfoyonme (hehe! I love that name!), kriCket xO, Quicksilver Foxx, and Fiona McKinnon

You guys are great!

Just so you know, I wrote this while in my deathbed – well, not really. But I felt sick as a dog. Don't ask what was wrong, because no one should have to relive that shit. I can only hope that it never happens to any of you. Anyway, the point is that REVIEWS make me feel better! Hint, hint! So press that nice little lavender-grey 'go' button and make me proud!

Love and lukewarm tea (I'm not allowed to have anything else while sick, apparently),

Cameo :


	6. What Are You All Talking About?

Disclaimer: Okay, yes, I _am_ the fab JKR, here to write a Hermione fanfic for nothing but personal enjoyment and a few reviews, and definitely _not_ some anonymous amateur writer.

Just kidding!

Don't sue me!

Okay, okay . . .

Disclaimer: Please ignore the last disclaimer. I am so not her. I own nothing but a pair of super cool Calvin Klein jeans that are all ripped up and awesome.

Now, then, on with the story!

OoOoO

**Chapter Six**

_I really can't believe that was her. It was like she had no reservations, like she was a Muggle, not a witch, someone who didn't have her entire life to hide. I hate it that when I'm around Muggles I have to be so guarded, but that was a sacrifice I made the day I started at Hogwarts and chose the wizard's life. Not that I really had a choice. I know that everyone else that I am close to has to go through the same thing. But not being alone doesn't make lying any easier._

The next couple of days were a blur.

I woke up on the floor of that same music room, a hangover raging at my temples. The blinds were all drawn, so the sunlight didn't exactly knock me on my arse. Sleeping forms of the other partiers were spread about the room, as if a bomb had dropped on the place and sent bodies flying. One kid by the door of the kitchen had discovered a gigantic teddy bear, and was apparently using it as a blanket. He kicked like a sleeping dog as I passed him to walk home.

My new school things had been bought while I was in the hospital. Seven new books (One for each Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, Care of Magical Creatures, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Ancient Runes, and Arithmancy) lay dog-eared and memorized inside my trunk. Beside them lay my wand, robes, prefect badge, quills, parchment, scheduling book, and a peculiar tiny leather purse.

Filled with illegal substances, of course.

More to restrain myself from breaking into my own stores than anything, I didn't spend much time in the house in those last two days. I finished packing, yes, but then would spend my days lounging by our development's pool or playing soccer (with tackling,thank you very much) with the other various teenagers living on the street. Most of the other girls just sat on park benches, watching me and all of those blokes make fun of each other and act like the idiots we are.

September first arrived, hot like an Indian Summer. Casey had come to see me off, as well as another friend who lived on our street, Michelle. It was one of the more touching things they'd ever done, getting up at dawn on a Tuesday in order to say goodbye to a girl who never even called to say hello during the school year. Not that I _could_ call either of them, but still.

I climbed into my father's mini just as the sun peeked over the edge of our fence.

A few hours later, I found myself sliding through the barrier onto platform 9 3/4, yawning in an attempt to look inconspicuous. It didn't help that a few of the more nosy Muggles just kept staring at me. I mean seriously, folks, take a picture!

The steaming red form of the Hogwarts Express did lift my spirits, though. It was strange how every year, no matter how old I got, the sight of that train always made me feel like an eager first year. Taking a deep breath, I pulled my things onto the train.

Most of the compartments were empty, and I checked my watch to confirm the reason. Ah, yes. Fifteen minutes early. I was quite proud of myself for not being late, like I was in second year. That time when the boys took the flying car. Honestly, I stayed back waiting for them, almost got myself into trouble for holding up the train . . . I shuddered at the memory. Then, realizing how silly I was being, I laughed. _Of course, Hermione,_ I thought, _you can perform illegal magic while drunk and it's no problem, but the second you try to hold up a train for your best friends for five minutes, you're in trouble, Missy!_

I swear, I make no sense sometimes.

I plopped down onto one of the plush, leather-covered seats and cracked open a book,_Finding Your Familiars,_ and prepared to settle in.

"Hullo, Hermione!"

"Hello, Neville," I replied, looking up at my fellow Gryffindor sixth year. He was a bit leaner than he had been at the end of term, and slightly more tanned. Not nearly tan enough for after summer holiday, though. "How was your holiday?"

"Alright, I suppose," he replied, taking a seat across from me. "I spent most of it traveling around, giving a couple of interviews."

"Really?"

Neville seemed a lot more assured as he continued, something very uncharacteristic. "Yeah, after what happened in the Ministry, and now that . . . well, now that the news about my parents is common knowledge again – " I was astonished that he actually said something about them, "a whole bunch of reporters want interviews. I did one, but I don't think that I would be able to take another person asking me all of those questions," he said, a conspiratorial grin growing on his face. "I heard that you had a good holiday, though."

"What?" I asked, curious.

"Well–,"

"Hey, Hermione. Mind if we stay in here?"

It was Ginny. Trailing in after her was the same old dreamy Luna, blond hair pulled into a bun on the side of her head. "No, you can stay," I offered, smiling. "How are you?"

To my surprise, it was Luna who answered, "It has been a nice break. Father and I went searching for Heliopaths in Siberia, and very nearly caught one when we had to return. I have photographs of it, though . . ."

Silence.

Ginny coughed.

"That sounds nice," I said delicately. The truth was, I got reasonably angry whenever this girl brought up somthing stupid and make-believe, when the real world was just so interesting. However, she was still a nice girl, so I tried to be supportive.

"Yeah, she came over to the Burrow as soon as she was finished, to visit and get some supplies," Ginny said helpfully. "It was so busy at home this summer. After the service, everyone just kind of stayed there, except for you and Harry." Everyone stilled slightly at the mention of Sirius's funeral service, the last time that I had seen all of the people present. And apparently, the last time _anyone_ had seen Harry.

Wow, I observed offhand. Two awkward silences inside of a minute.

Looking back up at me from her lap, Ginny put on an evil grin. "I heard that the rest of your summer was alright, though," she said, her eyes sparkling with the love of gossip.

Alright, this is getting a bit strange. "What exactly did you hear?" I asked, catching the eye of Neville, who was grinning at me again.

"Hermione!"

I tried not to groan, I really did. Ron bounded into the compartment, giving me a quick hug and stepping to the side to stow his things as Harry came forwards.

Harry's expression was one of mild embarassment, as if he knew that we had been talking about him moments earlier. I smiled at him, a tiny one.

"Hello Harry," I said, gauging his reactions. "How have you been?" The question was loaded with double meanings, more than either of us could probably grasp at the moment.

Harry shrugged, hands in his pockets. "Alright, I suppose." As he smiled at me, I realized that Harry had become a _very_ good actor over the summer. Trying to pull one over on me, eh? I raised an eyebrow at him.

Then hugged him.

A big hug.

Because the twat needed it.

When I released him, Harry sat down by the window, next to Ron, while I sat in between Ginny and Neville. Luna started playing with her necklace absently. Ginny leaned her back against the compartment door, braiding her hair into pigtails. "So how was your summer, Ron? Harry?"

Ron smiled, seemingly jittery. "Good, I guess. There were a bunch of people around, all summer. There were enough for a Quidditch game almost every day. Even Percy came back, only for a few days, though," he added.

"Percy came home?" I asked curiously.

Ginny nodded. "Yeah, probably just to save face in the media," she speculated, not meanly.

"I reckon he's working for Fudge still, as a sort of ambassador to the school now that Umbridge is in Saint Mungo's." Ron looked delighted.

"And you like that Percy's come back?" I asked, an incredulous tone in my voice.

"No," he said shortly. "I like that he's come back on his hands and knees."

Everyone laughed at that.

"He was pompous and everything, as usual," Ginny said. "But it was so funny because he was trying _not_ to be."

"There was one time when Mundungus Fletcher came over, swindling dragon scales, and he almost blew up with trying not to act superior," Ron reported.

"So you all had a nice summer."

"Yeah," Ron said, a glint in his eyes. "I heard that yours was alright, too –,"

"Bloody fucking piece of wanking shit! WHAT ARE YOU ALL TALKING ABOUT!"

Shocked silence.

More silence. My friends were looking at me as if I'd suddenly told them that I was a forty-year-old man in drag. Yeah, _that_ surprised.

Someone slid the door open, a fifth year Ravenclaw. "Prefects are –,"

"Bugger off!"

"Wha– well, I –!" she slid the door closed and stomped off. My eyes were already searching each of my compartment-mates' faces.

Harry tilted his head at me. "I don't think I've ever heard you curse," he said, his tone not at all disapproving.

Ron smiled, turning towards Harry but keeping his eyes on me. "Mate, this is not the same Hermione that left us at the end of term," he said proudly. "This is the . . . er, _new_ Hermione."

I looked down at myself jokingly. Yes, same baggy robes, same bushy hair, same worn trainers. "And what, exactly, is new?" I challenged.

"We've heard some interesting things about you," Ginny said. "From our parents. And Seamus, turns out." She laughed.

"Beg pardon?"

Harry smiled. "Hermione, you _have_ to remember this," Ginny said, almost desperately.

"I think in this situation, she _should_ not remember anything," Luna put in distractedly.

"What the bloody fuck are you all talking about?" I demanded.

"Going to a Muggle party and shooting out magic without a wand is the _last_ thing we expected from you," Harry said with a smile.

"That is, until we heard that you'd gone to _another_ one," Neville joked.

"And now cursing? Tut, tut," Luna said, staring off.

I sighed into my hands, going over what would happen when the rest of the student body assaulted me. I mean, really, if my best friends were this difficult, what would everyone else do? Gods, what would Slytherin do? What would the _teachers_ do? "Mnu tull yun," I muttered.

"What?" Neville asked.

"Who told you?" I asked.

Ginny inhaled for dramatic effect. "Well, Mum told us about you in the Ministry –,"

"Did she leave out her egg conquest?"

"What?" Ginny stopped at my interjection. "Egg conquest?"

"Never mind. Go on," I prompted.

"Yes, anyway, Mum told us about the whole incident at that Muggle's house and the wandless magic and all of that, but Seamus Finnigan told us about the other party, about two days ago," Ginny inhaled, "WHERE YOU **SNOGGED** HIM!"

I sputtered. "Seamus? _What?_" Two days ago, two days ago . . . Erin's house, there was a party, I played beer Pong and danced. My stomach sank as I remembered that I met some random person, whose identity I didn't remember the next morning.

Well. I suppose I snogged Seamus, then.

"Oh," I said.

Harry smiled at me, an understated gesture hidden in Ginny's raucous giggles, Luna's dreamy grin, and Neville's laughing at Ron's look of utter disgust and disbelief. "So I take it you don't remember, exactly," Harry surmised.

"No," I responded. "That's generally the way that I can tell that it was a good night –,"

Ginny laughed. I fixed her with a shy grin, trying not tofeel embarassed abouthow careless I sounded.

"Seamus!" Ron demanded.

My eyebrows wiggled as I bit back a nervous laugh. "I guess so," I said. Ron made a choking sound at me, and I rolled my eyes. "Oh, honestly," I muttered. The glass door slid open again.

"What the bloody –"

I stopped myself, realizing that the person I had tried to tell off was just the one who I wanted to see. A certain so-called 'Secret Admirer.'

"Hello, Malfoy," I said, trying not to let a smile creep onto my face. _Come on Gleans, do your worst!_

OoOoO

a/n: Ah, yes. They meet.

I know that I am being impossibly slow, but realism is the key here. And for my twisted, twisted plot, I must set up some framework. Not that I'm not open to suggestions! Oh no! I may even take them a bit too seriously, if it's a really good idea.

Yar.

Whoa, okay, I am the weirdness. Anyway, if you guys have got suggestions, questions, corrections, or just want a friendly chat, please press the button. Go on! Remember: Cami looooves you all! She also looooves to write about herself in third person!

Again, the weirdness.

Yes, I know that's not a word.

Weirdness, I mean. Weirdness isn't a word. Is it? >cough 

**ALERT: these people are awesome!**

Special thanks to: kriCket xO (I'm feeling loads better, thanks! I hope you liked the chapter!), MissDitzy (wow, chica, if you're like Mya . . . we BOTH need to slow down! Hehe!), littlemissy616 (4.5! Hermione would be so proud! As for me, yeah, a little too much personal experience here), and ProfessionalToiletFlusher (god, I'd love to hear the story behind that name! And thanks so much, yeah, Mya's awesome)

Love and carrots ('cause I'm on a diet),

Cameo


	7. The Prefects' Chat

Disclaimin it up: Fo' shizzle, this izntizzle the rizzle thizzle.

Yes, I know I'm dumb. But disclaimers are always _so very_ boring.

Anyway, lets get to it!

OoOoO

**Chapter Seven**

_I was so nervous today. My hands shook, my voice ached, and the only thing that I could do was try to get myself in control. I need control. I'm expected to have it. And I'm not going to let her take it away from me._

"Hello, Malfoy," I said, trying not to let a smile creep onto my face. He doesn't know that I found out the card was from him! Pulling one over on my would-be manipulator simply made me smirk.

"Get out of here, Malfoy." Ron's expression of disgust intensified, fixed on the pale boy as he slowly reached for his wand.

"Bloody hell, Ron, don't get in trouble before we even get to the school," I reprimanded. Ha, ha, Malfoy doesn't know! I thought in a singsong way.

"Oh, look at the Muggle-born, cursing!" Malfoy carped, eyeing me with mock-surprise. "What's the matter, Granger, did someone finally take that wand out of your arse?" he asked. That prick!

"Just sod off, Malfoy," Harry said tiredly.

"Oh, as much as I would love to," Malfoy said with a put-upon sigh, "I am actually here because some new prefect – Rachel Fordwin, most likely – came back from this compartment, telling tales." Oh. So that was the fifth-year's name.

"What did _she_ have to say?" Ginny asked. The venom in her voice made me remember that Michael Corner was now going out with that same Ravenclaw. Ginny's reaction was now startling in itself; Ginny, the jealous type?

Malfoy flecked a piece of dust off of his shoulder. "Oh, something about how Granger here told her to bugger off," he said disdainfully. "I assumed she was lying, but now that I've actually heard Granger swearing like a sailor, I don't know what to believe!"

"Malfoy, what are you doing here?" I asked. Gods, this was getting old.

He smiled at me. "I had to investigate the reports, of course. And the Head Boy sent me to get all of the prefects up to the front compartment," he said, in a much more matter-of-fact voice.

Fighting back the urge to ask who the Head Boy was, I changed tactics. "Well, now you've told me. Could you leave now?"

"Tetchy, Granger?" Malfoy laughed. "Come on." Without another glance, he turned on his heel and took off down the corridor.

Arrogant bastard. It's as if he simply assumes that I will follow him, like an obedient dog.

But then I remembered that the Heads were calling for us, and that I had no choice. With a sigh, I made for the door. "Come on, Ron, Luna. We'd better go to the front compartment," I said. My happiness over besting Malfoy was indeed short-lived.

The hall on the Express was filled with doors opening and closing, people running back and forth between compartments, all scurrying around the unruffled witch who ran the snack cart.

"Six sickles," I heard her say to Dennis Creevy, who was hiding in a compartment with several other second-years. I passed by with a wave, earning a woozy smile from Dennis. While his older brother had been obsessed with Harry, the younger Gryffindor had apparently developed the same obsession with me. I rolled my eyes. Oh joy, just what I need: A hyperactive, eager-to-please pest who happens to be four years younger than me. He's like that annoying distant cousin who always follows you around at family gatherings.

The thing is, I had memorized the speech Professor McGonagall had given us first years the first time I had ever set foot in the castle. And what's worse, I had taken it to heart. She told us that while we were in Hogwarts, our houses would be like our families. That's the way I felt.

Well, for the most part.

I shot Ron a look, noticing his lack of argument over Seamus, who I had apparently snogged.

How very strange, I thought. Ron glanced back over at me, apparently thinking along the same lines that I had been a moment earlier.

"Seamus?" he demanded. "_And_ you always told me how I was a prefect!_ No Ron, you shouldn't drink that firewhiskey, you are a prefect!_" he said, mimicking my voice. So much for not being argumentative.

"Firewhiskey happens to be a lot stronger than what I was drinking, Ron," I sighed. "And besides, with your brothers, I would expect you to know that witches and wizards aren't as affected by say, vodka, as much as Muggles are!" I omitted that I had probably matched the quality of the Wizards' alcohol with quantity of Muggle Smirnoff.

"What's that mean, 'with your brothers?'" Ron pounced.

"Oh, no," I said, starting to get angry. "Don't you play innocent with me. You know better than anyone that Fred and George were practically bootleggers for the Gryffindor tower!"

"So what if they were? It's obvious you don't really mind the drinking laws at home," Ron said.

"Actually, I think she was minding the law fairly well," Luna reasoned with a spacey smile. "She never _did_ get arrested."

Ron scowled at her and turned back to me, ready to fire another remark. "We're here," I said. He closed his mouth and stepped inside the Prefects' Compartment after me, followed by a still-smiling Luna.

The Prefects' Compartment was decorated similarly to the rest of the train, except that all of the benches faced the front, towards the conductor's station behind the door. Twenty-three people were already inside the compartment (two for each year of each house, with the exception of Hannah Abbot, who was on a snack run). A podium stood to the left of the front door, where a familiar girl with dark hair and freckles stood in readiness.

She cleared her throat. "Alright, for those of you who don't know, I am Cho Chang, the new Head Girl this year, and Christopher Harrington is the new Head Boy." A shorter bloke, maybe 5'7", stood up beside her. He had light hair and a decent tan, but simply screamed _Slytherin!_ The shift in his eyes as he smiled at the assembled prefects was a dead giveaway.

"This year, for those more experienced Prefects, will be much like any other," Cho continued. "That means the right to assign referrals to Heads of Houses, rights to the prefects' common room and bathrooms, and unfortunately – patrolling duties." Most of the others groaned at this, at which Cho smiled prettily. "Yes, I know – being a prefect means extra duties, responsibilities and rights, as I'm sure you all read in your letters when you received your badges. This year, there is a particular emphasis on making sure that everyone stays in their dormitories after curfew, what with the War on." I started at the casual mention of Voldemort's return, but was determined to keep my eyes on Cho. I shot a particularly nasty look at one of the Slytherin prefects, though, who had let out a bark of laughter. "This doesn't mean that the other offenses will be ingnored, though, so I need to remind everyone what constitutes a referrable offense."

At this, Cho slammed out a huge tome onto the podium with such force that I thought that it would crack. She flipped open the front cover, pulled out a tiny list of notes, and began to read.

"Referrals can be given for using magic in corridors, outside of Hogwarts grounds while still under care of the school, or in the Great Hall, for using any one of the eight hundred and twenty-two banned items on Filch's list, for provoking another student, for attacking another student, for being out past curfew, for disobeying a professor's command, for reading books in the restricted section without a note, stealing, sneaking out of the school or into the Forbidden Forest without permission, skipping detentions, threatening any students or portraits, vandalizing school property, or turning a fellow student into a badger against his or her will." She looked up at the last one. "Apparently, that's a long story."

I laughed. But what was really funny was that though everyone had generally accepted my as a teachers' pet, I had broken every single one of those rules before my sixth year had even begun, with the possible exception of the Badger Rule.

Notice that I said a _possible_ exception. I may have turned Ron into a badger by accident once while duelling in DA, but I couldn't really tell because he had just sent a Tripping Hex at my head.

And that hex isn't only for your feet.

So even though I aimed a spell and _saw_ Ron turn into a badger, it may not have really happened.

It was also funny that though Ron had attacked me for my supposed hypocrisy about drinking, he had actually given me my first substance-associated experience. He had never found out, of course, because it was a very weak hex. But it's still strange how these things turn out.

The Head Boy, Christopher, stepped up to the podium next. He was very good-looking, or at least had a sort of aura about him. He had charisma coming out of his ears. He smiled briefly at us all (I tried to clamp down on the giggly feeling I was building up) and began his speech. "Yes, right. So I'm Chris Harrington, I'll be the head boy. I have to say that my older brother was responsible for the Badger Rule– apparently he flicked instead of jabbed while learning mammal transfiguration in sixth year, and one of his house-mates happened to be nearby, the poor bloke." Harrington gave a sigh of pity, cracked a smile and continued.

"As you all know, it is customary for prefects to patrol the halls after curfew. This would usually be done by checking in with one of your respective Heads of House before patrol, and submitting the time and status at which you returned. However, there will be a new system this year. Cho, may I?"

Harrington took the small piece of parchment from Cho, unfolded it, and held it out at arm's length. "Er– oh, right. Ahem." He smiled. "From now on, prefects will be patrolling in pairs. This is one of the many measures that have been implemented for the sake of prefects' safety. A prefect's partner may be anyone, as long as you all take turns. No one can skive off their duties by saying that someone else took their shift or partner. Prefects will sign up for shifts in times they are available on the list that will be located on the bulletin board just outside the Great Hall. No one will be able to change or erase another person's name, so don't get a friend to sign up for you. Lists will be posted at the beginning of each month. Please sign up before the Feast tonight – everyone has to do two shifts a month. Early ones are generally claimed first."

"As soon as everyone reads the duty parchment, you all can go. Thanks," Cho finished, with an agreeable smile from Harrington.

I got up immediately, on my tiptoes behind everyone who was clumped around the parchment posted by the doorway. I scanned the lines quickly. It was full of everything Cho had just told us. Grabbing Ron and Luna, I made my way back to our compartment.

Ron looked at his watch. "Glad that didn't take as long as last year. Merlin, I thought the heads would never stop talking."

"It was just an introduction speech, Ron. The Head boy and girl have no say over how long they had to be," I said reasonably.

"That doesn't mean that last year they had to go around the room introducing people as '_the kid who spit up slugs when he tried to curse Malfoy,_'" Ron said grumpily.

"I take it you're happy they graduated, Ronald," Luna quipped. Ron huffed and slid oped the door to our compartment.

"Where's Harry?"

Ron and I stepped into the tiny room, I thinking of a place Harry could have gone and Ron looking around, as if he would spot a bit of black hair underneath an old copy of _The Quibbler_. Luna peered over my shoulder. "Ginny and Neville are gone, too," she observed.

"I saw them in Lavender's compartment," I responded. Where is that boy? "I can't think of where he would go," I said finally.

"Private compartment." Oh, lovely. Dennis Creevy. "He snuck off to use that one in the back of the train, near the luggage compartment. I _do_ wonder what he's up to . . ." He looked to be dying of curiosity, judging from the purple in his face. Turning to blue. Oh, he's really quite pale. Green? Why isn't he breathing?

"Dennis, are you alright?" Luna asked.

The small boy's eyes widened as he nodded, seemingly remembering to breathe. Oh, Merlin. He's staring at me. "Thank you, Dennis," I said. _Please leave me alone!_ He nodded again.

He didn't get the hint.

"Let's find Harry, I want to see what he's up to," Ron said. I was only too eager to lead the way. The again-breathing, nervous Creevy was left behind as Ron and Luna trailed after me.

I _say_ trailed. I _mean _'Ron was right behind me.' Practically on top of me. My own small crush aside, he should have been standing right beside me when I opened the door to the last room on the train, if only we could have shared the initial shock of finding Harry –

_**Holy mother of magic!**_

Well!

. . .I wondered what he'd been doing all summer.

OoOoO

a/n: Ha! This is definitely an intriguing development. Don't you think?

Now, before your minds all run away with themselves, I have an apology to make.

_OH PLEASE REVIEWERS! FORGIVE THIS HUMBLE WRITER FOR HER TRANSGRESSIONS AGAINST PROMPTNESS AND GOOD WRITING! PLEASE HAVE MERCY ON HER SOUL!_

Ahem. **_PLEASE!_**

Jesus, Cami, _pull it together_!

Ohhhhmmmmmmmmm . . .

Better.

Anyway, much thanks for the reviews, muchos gracias! Merci beaucoup! Spaceba! (I don't remember if that one's right.)

Happy Easter/ late Ostara/ Passover/ Spring break party time from your friendly writer! (Who has her prom dress – which is so hot and rocks hardcore! But, alas, no date. How ironic.)

Love and chocolate cadbury eggs,

Cameo


	8. Party at Gryffindor

Disclaimer: Yea– no.

a/n: thanks so much to my reviewers, I'm incredibly sorry that I haven't updated lately, but I promise that I will make it up to you. Action will start soon! I promise! And to the Lady of the Realm: I may have to use that idea . . . and yeah, I'm only a lowly sixteen years old, but hopefully more brilliant than my years.

Let's get on with it!

OoOoO

**Chapter Eight**

After two weeks of sitting in long classes, reading dull books, and sleeping in the same (otherwise empty) bed every night, I have come to a conclusion:

Wizards have no idea how to party.

My father had always pressed the importance of keeping up the Malfoy name, of course, but this never extended to binge drinking. Respect could be gained in more ways than one, my father always said, usually referring to either bribery or torture. I _earned_ my respect – in shots.

You may be surprised by my empty bed, as well. Well, imagine growing up with the same five or ten people. These are the only people that you are allowed to see or be seen with for the rest of your life. At this bleak prospect, it occurs to me that whatever time spent outside of their company will take it longer for me to grow tired of my comrades.

As for everyone else in the school, they were all things to be laughed at, like court jesters. Right now, Granger's the most useful at it. I chuckled, spotting an envelope sitting on my bed, addressed to one _David Gleans_ in a very precise cursive. I jumped onto the bed and began reading.

_Dear David,_

_I'm so glad that you responded to my last letter. Yes, I was very curious to find out who you were, so a friend of mine did a revealing spell over the card. I'm glad to know you're not upset about it! Though all of those shameless compliments may have been sarcastic . . . I mean, honestly? That was the longest string of euphemisms I've ever read! You do seem nice. I wish we could meet up soon, if you're interested? Curious as I am, I almost died of interest when I couldn't place a face to your name. _

_Let me know soon, and where we can meet. It's only fair, isn't it, that I know you if you already know me? Don't be shy!_

_Until then,_

_Hermione_

It took me nearly a quarter hour to read, I was laughing so hard. The door banged open, and in stalked one of my housemates, a very tan boy with dark brown hair. Well, look who it is!

"What's gotten you into such a light mood?" Blaise asked with a growl. Hello to you too.

"And what's gotten you into my business?" I countered, flipping over the letter in what I hoped was an inconspicuous way. "On the other hand, what's gotten you sounding like a boar with a hormone imbalance?"

Blaise snorted. "Point taken," he said. He sighed, sitting down on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands. Not unusual Blaise behavior. This sigh, however, seemed to be caused by something other than a failed romantic escapade.

"Well? Are you going to answer me or not?" I prompted. My brain was meanwhile searching for ways to get him out of the room so that I could write my bloody letter.

Blaise sighed, a very proper, disdainful, dramatic sigh. "As it would happen, Draco, I have a problem."

I rolled my eyes.

"There is a party going on tonight."

My ears perked. Paint my trousers and call me Albus, I may find some firewhiskey yet!

". . . in Gryffindor." He stood. "So if you'll just leave me to wait in utter boredom for the Quidditch outing tomorrow afternoon –,"

"So?" I asked.

"What d'you mean, _'So?'_"

"It often means that an explanation is needed or requested of another party."

"I know what it means, lame-arse." Blaise sighed again, as if explaining transfiguration to a dog. "I intended to ask, 'What the hell are you going on about?'"

I really did think that my comrade was more intelligent than this. "Just tell me when you decided that a night out would be worse than being trampled by hippogriffs," I said, eyebrow cocked at him.

"When it's required that we spend it with Gryffindors!" Interesting, a nerve has been found.

"We should support the noble traits of smuggling, lying, and fun-loving wherever we find them," I said decisively. I rolled off of the bed, found a set of casual black robes, and shrugged them on over my sweat pants and t-shirt.

"Where're you going?"

"Calcutta, Blaise. Where do you think?"

He gave me a suspicious look. "You're not going to that mudblood-infested cesspool up in the west tower, are you?" Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner!

I fastened the last clasp on my robes, already headed out the door. "You're welcome to join me," I offered. "Otherwise, keep your mouth shut, I don't expect to return." With a sweep of my robe, I was gone.

OoOoO

"Imagine! All these goody-goody Gryffindors! Who would've thought, eh? Draco? Oi, Malfoy!"

Half an hour later, I was in the middle of the Gryffindor common-room, having gained entrance from some seventh year Ravenclaw. A significant number of students from every house were crammed into the tower. A rough guess would be around sixty people, but there was no way to count, as some were still coming in and everyone was moving around once they got inside.

Blaise had already downed a good few shots of firewhiskey, and was apparently starting to feel it, judging by the way he stumbled back and forth from the fire and hummed "Weasley Is Our King." When he was nearby, he hovered irritatingly by my left shoulder, like an anxious house-elf.

I was trying to chat up a friendly fifth-year. And by friendly, I mean good-looking.

"Hold on a second," I said, flashing my best aren't-I-charming smile at the girl. She twirled a strand of shiny auburn hair and giggled. I have a good feeling about this girl, I thought with a secret laugh.

"What is it, Blaise."

"Don' get your robes'n a bunch!"

I sighed. Imagine, a drunk getting snippy with me because I took a minute from my little conversation to act like I give a damn. "I'm listening, Blaise," I said.

He seemed a bit more satisfied at that. "Look'it the bookworm, mate! See'er?" He pointed waveringly near a staircase where a group of people were congregated. I glanced over, not really paying attention, and continued my conversation with fifth-year.

"Apologies for the interruption," I said with a smile.

"Is that a friend of yours?" she asked, twirling her hair again. Oh, that tosser? The one who cost me five minutes between here and getting into a nearby bed?

"I'm afraid so," I replied disdainfully.

"That's so sweet!" Twirl, twirl.

"What is?"

She suddenly looked shy, as if her outburst would cause turmoil for me. "Well, your friend, you're looking out for him, even if you're a bit busy," she explained. "It's kind of– cute – how you look out for him." Twirl, twirl. Smile. Twirl.

"Well, I try," I said, the smile growing on my face once again.

"Not everyone would do that," she continued eagerly. "Most of the Slytherins I've spoken to are kind of mean, look-out-for-number-one type blokes," she said. She bit her lip. "You don't really seem like that, though." Twirl. Smile. That smile that says, alright, I'm ready for bed.

I knew I had a good feeling about this girl!

"Well, I–,"

"Draco! Look'it!"

I spun around furiously, looking for my offender. "Blaise! What the hell do you want!"

My fury was without avail. "Look!" he said, pointing at the right staircase, which I looked at again. The people had abandoned the base to get out of the way of more people coming off of – A slide? Why don't the dungeons have slides?

"When the hell did that slide get here?"

"The girls' stairs turn into a slide when a boy tries to climb up," Twirla-Girl explained, looking around me to see what was happening. "Oh, look, they're having races again!"

"Races?"

"Down the slide. Wait, you'll see." I was a bit curious what she was talking about, so I turned to look at the slide again.

"_MYA, MYA, MYA,"_ the students started chanting. I looked around. The low light of the fire and rhythmic stomping made it feel like a tribal ritual. All eyes were on the top of the staircase, where I spotted a group of people talking and laughing. Glints of light came from teeth and wide eyes through the darkness, but one figure in particular seemed to glow. It stepped out from the shadow, laughing, head bowed in mock-resignation. Hermione?

"Alright! Alright, I'm going. Dean, come on!" it tugged at another hand, and a larger figure stepped out. They moved to the side to allow a large mat to slide in front of them, and settled down on the edge of it.

"Is that a mattress?" Blaise asked wildly. I squinted into the darkness.

"No, I – yes, it is!" I eagerly stepped to the front of the crowd, grinning, to see this.

"**_THREE, TWO, ONE!"_**

"What the–,"

The mattress came shooting out of the top landing like a cannonball. Spraying white foam and screaming as they went along, Thomas and Granger sat on top like they were riding a magic carpet. The crowd moved and gasped below them. Meanwhile, the mattress began flying around the room like a hyperactive owl. Sprays of white blurred but continued, girls shrieking as they were hit.

Then, all of the sudden, the mattress stopped. And plummeted.

"**AAAAAHHHHHHHH!"** The entire room shouted in unison, Granger screaming the loudest of all. I ducked to the side to avoid the falling students, who were directly above me.

The mattress landed with a _thump_ two feet away from where I had rolled.

_Sssssssssss–_ what the hell is that? Thomas and Granger looked down at me, their magic carpet deflating beneath them. _Ssssssssss._ I gave a sigh of relief. Still alive.

"Hallo, Malfoy," Granger said amiably. She peered at me with wide eyes and a genuine smile. "What're you doing?" The mattress settled enough for me to think it safe to speak.

"Just trying not to get killed, Granger," I said.

PSSSHHHHHT!

"AUGH! WHAT IS THAT?" I looked to the side, touching my wet ear, to find Thomas off of the bed, grinning devilishly in front of a group of people. A can was clutched readily in his left hand, explaining the white foam that was sprayed all over the side of my face.

"Whipped cream, Malfoy," Thomas laughed. "'Ere, look!"

Time seemed to slow down for a moment as Thomas leaned forwards. I gave a feeble, slow attempt at escape, but it was to no avail.

He got right next to me, and licked my ear.

He _licked MY **EAR!**_

"**WHAT THE FUCK!"**

I was literally beyond comprehension. Apoplectic. In_furiated_. Licked by a half-blood Gryffindor _man_!

Granger had come out of nowhere, clutching a bottle of Sterovski's Smouldering Firewhiskey. She sat in front of me, on the mattress that was still deflating two feet away. "You want one, Malfoy?" she asked, seeing the look I was giving the bottle.

Without further question, I snatched it out of her hand. Sweet nectar of redemption! I took a large gulp, almost crying with relief as the drink burned down my throat.

"Je-sus Christ, what happened to you?" Granger asked without venom. She observed my state of discomfort like a transfiguration experiment. I gulped again, sighing my contentment.

"Thomas fucking_ licked_ me," I said, relatively more composed.

"Why would he do that?" she wondered aloud.

I snorted. "Like any of you lot need a reason to be idiots," I said. "He sprayed some white rubbish at me. When I asked him what the hell it was, he said, 'Whipped cream! Here, look,' and licked it off!"

Granger chuckled and shook her head. "What the hell are you laughing about?" I spat at her.

The girl was unfazed. She instead took a hold of my chin and tilted my head to the side. "What do you know," she said offhandedly.

"What?" Oh, Merlin, what else did he do?

"He missed a spot!" Something cool on my cheek–

"_**GRANGER! W-WHA?"**_

I gaped over at the bookworm, seeing her wipe some whipped cream off of her lips and lick her fingers. She did!

Who would've known. My mind was totally blank, as if it was a chalkboard and someone had just erased everything. Just blank, blinding blackness. Then something new was scribbled onto it. In a very neat, tidy cursive, the board proclaimed: _Hey, Granger's pretty cool._

She smiled at me, implicitly friendly and unjudgemental, and began to giggle. I started laughing, too. Everyone around us, who had apparently seen the whole thing, was laughing. Me, licked by two Gryffindors – literally! It was hilarious!

Granger surprised me again, taking the firewhiskey, drinking a huge gulp, and giving it back to me without so much as a cringe. I took the bottle with a smile.

"Granger, I gotta hand it to you. You lot know how to throw a party."

OoOoO

a/n: well? How do you like it so far? OOC, yes; unbelievable, yes; but dammit, it's my fic! And that last description –"friendly and unjudgemental"– was very deliberate choice of words. In case you didn't notice.

This was actually a really hard chapter to write. I'm American. Writing like a Brit – a guy, for that matter– is like getting a bikini wax. A very good looking result, but a long, confusing, dangerous process.

The end is so very cliche as well. But I'm getting a foundation down, here!

Thanks to my reviewers, I'm trying to be as quick as possible with updates, but I actually have to write these and think up new ideas as I go along. All of this? Out of my ass.

Do pardon my French.

So help me out (you can tell that I need all of the help that I can get, and no, I'm not too noble to beg, I'll be going to college in a year) and press that marvelous little sunshiny-lavender button. Go, now! Shoo! Go ahead, my chickadees!

Love and leftover Easter candy (who else loves old peeps?),

Cami


	9. Educational Hangover

Disclaimer: dude, I'm gonna stop even writing these. Seriously.

A/n: yes, I suck for not writing, but give me a break! Explanations at the end of the chappie, but it involves illicit circumstances and several hot guys. If easily offended, then you shouldn't even be reading _this_ story.

OoOoO

**Chapter Nine**

"Malfoy?"

"Hm?"

"No, I'm calling Malfoy."

"Oh, sorry. Oi, Malfoy!" Dean landed a sharp poke on his forehead.

"Gah!. . .Hungh?"

"Oh, sodding Merlin," I groaned into my arm. "Malfoy!" I leaned over to shake the poor hungover boy so that we could start cleaning out the Gryffindor tower. And the sooner I cleaned everything up, the sooner I could ask Dumbledore exactly how I propelled a mattress and two people around the common room six times.

How to wake the sleeping beauty, I wondered? "Bleeding Christ! Malfoy, get up, your father's coming!"

Malfoy groaned.

"Hello, Mr. Malfoy," Dean said brightly.

Malfoy shot up at this. His eyes darted around wildly as he sat on the clean bedspring mattress, blond hair everywhere. His robes were disheveled, too. Half- wrinkled down the side, with a huge crease over the silver and green emblem. Then his eyes locked on Dean and narrowed into slits.

"You filthy half-blood, how dare you talk about my father!" he spat. Too bad his voice was too scratchy to speak above a whisper.

"That's rich," Dean grumbled.

"And where–," Malfoy started again.

"Malfoy."

"What?" He jerked his neck to look at me, giving an impression of strength despite the distinct sway of his torso.

"Shut it."

He tilted his head. "Pardon you?" he asked sarcastically.

I give him the Death Stare.

Having never experienced the Stare before, Malfoy crumples like a tin can in under ten seconds. He falls back down onto the bed, almost hitting a blond third-year with his arm.

"Nice," Dean observes thoughtfully.

Malfoy sits up again, a bit slower this time. It's almost as if he's a different person when his father hasn't been mentioned in the past minute. "Alright, Dean, fuck off. Where's the lavatory?"

I giggled. "Up the boys' staircase, second door on the right," I said.

Malfoy gave me a smirk. "Know your way around the boys' dorms, eh Granger?"

I patted his back. "Just go throw up, hm?"

His eyes looked very disdainful, as if saying, 'Malfoys don't throw up, peasant girl,' but his expression was more resigned. Or rather, panicky. He stalked off to the boys' staircase with no small amount of trepidation, as if wondering whether or not they were going to explode if a dreaded Slytherin stepped foot on them.

Actually, that may have been a possibility. That Godric was an amusing bloke. Unfortunately, though, Malfoy made it to to the bathroom free of explosions or singe marks.

"So," Dean said.

"So what?" I asked, leaning back on the partially flattened mattress.

"Is there something you should tell me?" he intoned, casting me a suspicious look. The light coming through a high window went across his eyes, making them too bright to read.

For about a week, Dean and I had been talking. It wasn't nearly long enough for me to tell whether or not he was being serious when hinting at a possible affair. "Not really– but what about?" I asked.

"You and Malfoy were bickering like old pals," he said, more relaxed.

I shrugged. "Bickering. That's what we do best," I smiled. Dean smiled back and leaned out of the sunlight, letting me see a slight bit of relief in his dark face.

"I knew that," he said. He gave me a light peck on the mouth, and I smiled into his lips. How the hell did I get so lucky? A week or so into the first semester of my sixth year, and all of the sudden, one of the nicest, smartest, cutest guys I had ever known asks me out.

"Ungh," a voice observes. I turned to see Malfoy standing there, an unreadable look on his face. "I may need to use the men's room again," he muttered.

"Shut up, Malfoy," Dean said dismissively.

"Now, boys," I say, doing a McGonagall impression. Both of them soften up, Malfoy less noticeably but nonetheless happy that I had mocked a teacher. My own head of house, for that matter. "What say you both to a rousing tour of the kitchens?" I asked.

"Need I remind you that I just threw up?" Malfoy asked sarcastically.

"Ginger ale for the gentleman, then," Dean quipped. "Let's go."

"Ungh," Malfoy said.

OoOoO

"No, you need to aim a bit to the left, that spoon's bent," I coached a while later.

"I know, just watch for flying skins," Dean warned.

The house-elves had been ecstatic when I brought the two boys into the kitchen. They immediately set on preparing and finding food, without even waiting for directions long enough to know that a very pungent pot roast should not be wafted under Malfoy's nose after a night of partying. They were just as quick with the mop and bucket, though.

The time passed, and after a tour, Dean discovered the magical shredder. It was a tiny hoop set onto a bowl, much like a basket, that worked like a very precise wood chipper on whatever was dropped into it. The cutlery was discovered soon after.

A grape soared into the air in a perfect arc and landed right in the middle of the rim. "Nice one!"

Dean took a bow and pulled me into a hug.

"I did wonder how you both got all of that whipped cream," Malfoy said again, looking around the kitchens and sipping his ginger ale. "These house-elves seemed so. . . _happy_ to have you here."

"Well, I try to help them, and I know a few personally," I explained. "I like to think that I somewhat understand them."

"What's to understand?" asked Dean. "They're house-elves!" I punched his arm.

"Dobby, come here, please," I said. Head bobbing, one of the cutest of the horribly ugly elves skipped up to me.

"Yes, Miss Hermy?" he smiled.

"Tell these gentlemen that story you told me," I said. Dean, rubbing his arm, gave me an exasperated look. "No, you need to hear it," I said. "Go ahead, Dobby."

The house-elf sighed. "Alright, Miss Hermy." His brow furrowed for a moment, and taking a deep breath, he began.

"This story starts a long time ago, before Dobby's great-great-great grandparents were alive. Thousands and thousands of years ago, before even the great Merlin-wizard was born, house-elves were just elves. Elves was living all over the place, in tribes and clans near humans. Elf clans had many wars, big wars between many clans over magic and land. When elves fight, elves is having to give up servitude to captors, part of an old tradition. Showy elf leaders thought the best way to declare a victory was to bring home slaves, and have slaves be killed in huge ceremonies, so that the children of the slaves would be raised without parents in the new clan and learn being a servant, a good servant." Dobby stopped, looking thoughtful. "Dobby thinks this part is not very wise, choosing stupid honor and tradition over safety for young elves," he declared.

"I agree, Dobby," I said, trying to impress how important this story was to both Dean and Draco. "Please continue."

"Yes, Miss." Dobby's ears drooped. "This was near the time when wizards and humans started fighting, and elves retreated to the wilderness. Schools and power was all lost, but still they remembered tradition and honor of battle. Wizards knew elves was slaves to honor already. They tricked Dobby's ancestors to fight alongside the wizards, against the humans, the Muggles. At the end of the battle, the wizards switched sides to fight with the Muggles and captured the last of the elves."

Both Draco and Dean had strange expressions on now, as if they were both about to burst. I still couldn't tell their reactions; their eyes were wide, plastered to Dobby's slight form. The house-elf looked at the ground.

"The wizards was smart, spelling the elves using the tradition of loyalty to bind young elves to servitude. Muggles can't own house-elves because they is not having enough magic to keep them."

"But wait," Dean said. "Why can you all go free if you get clothes, then?"

Without the slightest hint of an ancient grudge, Dobby smiled up at him. "The clothes is signs of clans, sir. Clans show elf independence and freedom and power, because only elves with power can form clans. Clothes are power!" he squeaked.

"So all of the socks are really an ego thing, eh?" Draco chuckled, looking at Dobby's feet noticing at least five socks on each. Dobby smiled at him.

"So why don't most elves like getting freed?" Dean asked.

Dobby shrugged. "They is not knowing the true story, sir. The story was lost, except to Dobby's family, the leaders of a strong elf clan. Other house-elves think it is more honorable to stay in servitude, instead. But Dobby likes his freedom, sir," he added with a smile.

"I'm glad," Dean met my eye as he said it. I leaned over and hugged him, looking at Draco, who was still very interested.

"Why are you still a servant still, if you've been freed?" he asked.

"Why sir," Dobby said, "just because Dobby doesn't like slavery doesn't mean Dobby isn't a hard-worker."

"That's true, Dobby," I said. Meanwhile, I was still trying to read Draco's expression. Is that?. . . No, it couldn't be.

_Silly peasant girl,_ I chastised myself sarcastically, _Malfoys don't feel sympathy._

OoOoO

a/n: Yes, I suck, I know. Yes, I haven't written in ages, I know. But being almost arrested twice, grounded three times, and fucked up almost every day for a month have taken their toll. Let's put it this way: Hermione's parties are tame, small potatoes compared to this shit.

I basically have had a pretty awesome time. And I swear: imagine Draco, in all of his hot shirtless glory. Times ten. On a tropical beach. With his hair in his eyes. That's about the level I'm talking with one, yes, _one_ of the many guys I was almost arrested with. Seriously . . . and you will get all of that and more if you review!

Wow, I need to bottle these mad hormones and get to some more fic writin'. But it won't happen! No! Not unless you give many reviews to this horribly unworthy rat of a writer who is eagerly anticipating the sixth book (oooh, I can't wait)!

Love and chocolates,

Cami


End file.
